Page 20 of Coach (Heartstrings of Honor #4)

Mateo

I should’ve turned around the moment I saw the disco ball shaped like a football.

That was my first thought as I pulled open the heavy front door of Jockstraps, the gayest sports bar in the South—and possibly the universe.

The sign outside featured a neon jockstrap bouncing rhythmically over a pair of crossed baseball bats, and it was flashing in time to a beat I was almost certain came from a RuPaul remix of the Monday Night Football theme.

Inside, the place looked like the lovechild of an ESPN set and a drag brunch.

Flat-screen TVs lined the walls, each broadcasting something different—hockey, gymnastics, a rerun of The Golden Girls with Spanish subtitles, and a men’s diving competition that everyone seemed to be openly enjoying.

Rainbow pennants hung between framed jockstraps signed by minor league baseball players and one very confused Olympic fencer.

Above it all spun the disco football, casting sparkles onto everything from the leather-lined bar stools to the massive oil painting of Cher in a referee outfit.

For some unknown reason, the artist had given her Dolly Parton’s boobs.

What did gay men know of Cher’s boobs? Or Dolly’s? Or any woman’s, for that matter?

The air smelled like beer, nacho cheese, and horny ambition.

And I was twenty-nine minutes early.

“Whoa, fresh meat,” called a voice so deep it rattled my ribs.

I turned—and my knees threatened to rebel at what I saw.

Behind the bar stood a man who looked like he was sculpted from sex and protein powder.

He was shirtless, obviously , with a leather harness crisscrossing his massive pecs and a whistle hanging from his neck like he might call a foul on my entire existence.

His arms were the size of small countries, and his jawline could slice deli meat.

Dirty blond hair was gelled back like he had a three o’clock modeling shoot and a four o’clock arm-wrestling championship.

His name—written in Sharpie across his left pec—read: “Todd (really).”

“Uh, ciao ,” I said. Eloquent. Shakespearean, even .

Todd gave me a once-over that started at my sneakers and ended somewhere around my soul. “Your accent’s fucking hot, but you look like you’re either about to cry or confess to a murder.”

“I—I’m here for trivia night,” I stammered.

He leaned forward on the bar, biceps bulging in ways that violated safety codes. “You early or just anxious?”

“Both probably. It’s kind of a date, too. Second one. New guy. You know?”

“Cute.” Todd grinned. “We don’t get the nervous academic type in this early. You gonna puke on me, teach?”

“No! God—no,” I said, even as my stomach considered filing for divorce.

He slid a frosty pint of something amber across the bar. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

“I didn’t order—”

“You looked like you needed it. First beer’s free if you show up alone and have resting panic face and an accent that makes me crave pasta.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It is now. House rules.” He winked. “Drink up, cutie. You’re in Jockstraps now. Ain’t no shame, just games.”

I took a cautious sip—and choked.

“Ah,” Todd said. “Forgot to mention it’s an IPA brewed in-house by our drag queen in residence. She calls it ‘Daddy Issues.’”

I coughed violently into my elbow. “It tastes like citrus and socks one of my players left in the locker room all season.”

“She’d be thrilled to hear that.” Todd smirked, somehow making even that tiny gesture sexy.

I tried to recover some of my dignity—which was hard, given that behind me a TV was showing synchronized swimming set to “WAP.” I settled onto a stool at the far end of the bar and sipped my Daddy Issues like it might kill me quickly if I was lucky.

Todd followed me down, tossing a bar rag over his bare, broad shoulder. “What’s with this date?”

“Uh—”

“Blind date?”

“No.”

“Grindr thing?”

“Definitely not.”

He grinned. “So . . . a crush.”

I hesitated.

“Ha! Nailed it. They should give us bartenders some sort of psych license.”

I buried my face in the beer, wishing Todd would shimmy his hot tush away and let me drown my fears in peace.

And, of course, that’s when the committee in my brain convened.

Inner Mateo #1: You invited Shane. You’re an idiot, an absolute romantic moron.

Inner Mateo #2: Shane builds furniture with his bare hands and broods like it’s a full-time job. He’s not ready for this. He doesn’t want romance or laughter or, hell, people.

Inner Mateo #3 (Drama Queen Edition): He’s going to walk in, see a shirtless man in a jockstrap doing body shots off a dartboard champion, and leave you here to die alone. Possibly of shame.

I sighed, staring into the foam.

Inner Mateo #4 (Hopeful Fool): But maybe . . . maybe he’ll stay. Maybe he’ll laugh. Maybe he’ll like your friends. Maybe he’ll see you here, weird and awkward and very obviously sweating through your shirt, and decide you’re kind of wonderful.

“Need a towel?” Todd asked, glancing at my pits.

I groaned. “Please tell me this gets easier.”

“Coming out, dating, or trivia night?”

“All of it.”

He gave me a warm, gentle smile. “Eventually. But not before it gets a whole lot messier.”

Then he turned to yell at a bachelor party whose honoree was trying to climb onto the pool table. He looked about as drunk as I wanted to be in that moment .

I sipped again and looked at the door.

Only twenty-six minutes to go.

I had just convinced myself not to text Shane a panicked “don’t come, I have diarrhea” when the front door burst open like a musical number was about to begin.

“Matty’s here, sluts!” came a singsong shout loud enough to make Todd duck behind the espresso machine and the bachelor party cheer like Beyoncé had entered the building.

And there he was—Matty. Five-foot-nine of manicured eyebrows, designer jeans, platinum hair, and enough energy to power a small city. He spotted me instantly, shrieked like I was Madonna, and bolted across the room, arms wide.

“No—Matty, don’t—” I started, but it was too late.

I was engulfed in a cloud of cologne and fabulousness. He wrapped his arms around me like I’d just returned from war, then planted kisses on both cheeks with dramatic flair.

And then licked my left cheek.

“Did you just lick me?”

“It’s the European hello, darling,” he said, grinning like the Cheshire Cat.

“You’re not supposed to use tongue during the European hello. It’s quick pecks, that’s all. ”

He waved a hand like I was being pedantic. “Omar licks me, why can’t I do unto others?”

Omar, who had followed behind at a much more reasonable pace, strolled up with a grin and a full-on “yes, I do” shrug.

“That’s different,” I said. “You’re together, and, from what we’ve been told, Omar’s tongue is a religious experience. Yours feels like a damp stampede.”

“You’re just a pouty pants,” Matty said, releasing me and flouncing onto the barstool beside mine. “Hi Todd! We’ll take two ‘Daddy Issues’ and a shot of tequila with emotionally unavailable men in it.”

Todd gave him a thumbs-up without turning around, though his shoulders shook.

Omar took the stool on my other side and raised an eyebrow. “So. Shane.”

Oh no.

Matty gasped. “Oh my God, yes. Shane. You invited Shane? To this? To meet us?”

“I did,” I said, sipping my beer like it was poison and salvation in one. Then I caught myself. “No! I didn’t invite him to meet you . . . I mean . . . I did . . . he will . . . but that wasn’t . . . fuck.”

“Set aside the ice-bath-shock of meeting our group, you decided to bring him to Jockstraps? For a second date?” Omar asked.

“Is he okay with homoerotic sports kitsch?” Matty added, glancing around at the framed jockstraps and the Rocky Horror singalong playing over the speakers. On a whim, he reached back and pretended to cradle the not-very-well-hidden balls of the nearly naked baseball player in the frame behind him.

“He said yes.”

Omar blinked. “He said yes to you bringing him here?”

Matty placed a hand over his heart. “He’s braver than the Marines.”

“He’s hot?” Omar asked the only question most gay men cared about.

“Hot in that broody, emotionally constipated carpenter way,” Matty agreed. “Like if a growl were a man.”

“Like if Ron Swanson had tattoos and sad eyes,” I quipped.

Matty clapped his fingertips together. “Exactly! And muscles. Do you think he has a hairy chest? I bet he does.”

“Stop objectifying him,” I hissed, glancing toward the door.

“Puhleeeease.” Matty rolled his eyes. “If you didn’t want us to ask, you wouldn’t have texted ‘I want to climb him like a jungle gym’ three days ago.”

“That was private,” I grumbled .

“That was a group chat,” Matty countered.

“It was a moment of weakness,” I said, then buried my face in my hands.

Omar leaned in, voice softer, and placed a hand on my shoulder. “Are you nervous?”

“No,” I lied.

“You’re sweating,” he said, pulling his hand back and staring at his palm as though it came away covered in blood.

“I’m a coach. I always sweat!”

“You’re vibrating like a chihuahua on Red Bull,” Matty said cheerfully. “And you polished your glasses.”

Todd set down their drinks and leaned on the bar, amused. “This Shane guy better be worth the therapy you’re about to need.”

Matty raised his shot. “To crusty dreamboats and the fools who love them!”

Omar clinked glasses with him. “Amen.”

Todd hefted a shot glass filled with liquid sin and said, “To Plan B Bartenders if said crusty crashes and burns.”

I nearly choked. Todd winked and turned away.

Matty elbowed me, leaned in, and whispered, “Ooh, he’s tasty. Good Plan B!”

“He’s not my Plan anything!” I snapped, shook my head, then stared at the door and muttered, “ Please don’t be scared off by the glitter jockstrap chandelier.”

Matty patted my leg. “If he is, he’s not the one.”

The door opened again, this time with zero fanfare. There was no whooshing entrance or dramatic flounce or shouted greeting, just two men stepping inside like they owned the place—and were maybe here to repossess it.